[P] [LCS] don't understand the evil eye, or how one becomes two.
#1

Wc – 395
For Jethro/Mel, bonfire night.

SISTER OF THE [ M O O N ],



She saw him across the sand, already ruddy features accenting his face now lit up by the glow of the fire sparking to life. He had dark circles around his eyes Morrigan noted curiously, sipping at the strong beverage nestled securely in her hands. A leather bag was hung from her shoulder, containing a few bottles of home-brewed blueberry mead and several other means of having fun. Blinking reflexively as an ember popped in the nearby vicinity, the ashen streaks down the males pale cheeks were revealed and the Witch was at once decidedly curious.

Morrigan recalled the ash symbolism Nazario had gifted her while celebrating the young females ascension to Ashen Ring. He had placed a sooty hand over her heart and named the witch El Corazon. While Peony wished to have extravagance as her gift, the Rey had sensed Morrigans aversion to such things and went down the spiritual route – a gesture that still echoed loudly to her. Absently raising a hand to trace where the markings had once been, she downed the rest of her drink and fetched another strong smelling brew before striding over to the male.

Tossing the dark strands of her long, curly mane over one shoulder, the Priestess cleared her throat and raised a blackened hand in friendly greeting. “ Good Evening, my name is Morrigan. “ Now that she was standing in front of him, Morrigan noticed the pronounced shade of orange staining the bridge of the males tapered snout. It was present on his satellite ears as well, a sure mark of coyote heritage. The edges of each were decorated with metal earrings and altogether, it was certainly a look.

Finally settling on the stark, consuming vermillion of his eyes, the Witch smiled, feeling a touch parched suddenly. Lyssa would like him. Quirking an eyebrow, Morr was struck with the thought that she might as well.  “ I couldn’t help but notice the markings on your face. Is it ash? “ Morrigan queried, forcing herself to think of Nazario once more. “ The head of my pack decorated me with something like it not too long ago, I wonder if it’s of the same origin. Is there a spiritual meaning, perhaps? “ Realizing that the male hadn’t a moment to even answer her introduction the witchy coyote fell silent, cursing her insatiable thirst to learn things.




D A U G H T E R OF THE WOODS.

[Image: 7HdY84l.png]

From my ROTTING BODY, flowers shall G R O W, and I am THEM & that is E T E R N I T Y.
#2
They mostly lingered together, the collective from The Troupe. At first everyone seemed to play it off as wanting to be around should old man Cook need anything, but nerves might have had something to do with everything. They were familiar with the set-up of La Estrella Roja, where the flow of visitors was controlled. Out here in the near-wilderness they were without that oversight, though Jethro put his faith in his cousin to keep the peace. This seemed hard to do with a hundred or so bodies milling around, much like it had during the Olympics, but Jethro felt...all right.

For him, personally, the presence of so many wolves in a coyote-ruled land felt wrong. He imagined what Marlowe and Adina and even Kyrios would say.

This wasn't Inferni. It wasn't supposed to be Inferni.

Not everything had been lost in the fire, however.

He had left the group to refill his drink. The spirits here were all right, and he had a slight buzz going already. If he kept himself grounded with food and water he could ride this all night, and go to bed comfortable (and without the risk of a hangover). Camping out under the stars wasn't new for the Troupe, who had lived the traveler's life like nomads for several seasons before settling in the Waste.

While he waited for a break to occur in the crowd, a woman approached him. He was surprised by her height – something that convinced him she was not a purebred coyote as much as the odd black patches that covered all but one of her limbs. Her friendly greeting and forward questions convinced him she was a member of the Gang despite her lack of accent or clothing.

“I'm Jethro,” he said, and held out his hand. “Lykoi.” The name might not have meant anything to strangers anymore, but he was proud to carry it onward. “This is ash, yeah. It's made different, so it stays longer. I guess you could call it spiritual, yeah. You said Nazario marked you? What did he do, exactly?”
The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open.
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